Lashings Of Humility

People don't really see me as very humble. I like to think I'm polite, unless I'm provoked, but I stand my corner. So why is it that with some people (who have always happened to be female) I turn into a completely different person? Because they're hot? You'd think so, wouldn't you, and I suppose it's true that being hot has a lot to do with it but that doesn't necessarily mean great body or amazing looks or even specially nice feet - because for sure I do like women's feet, big time. There's something about some particular women, apart from all of those things, that makes me want to run over coals for them, while they sit and watch and enjoy.

Jesse would whip me. Till I was red. And then she'd want to do it more. Or she might decide to carve her initials into me with the tips of stilettos. It wasn't the fact that she did it, that made me want her to cut loose on me, time after time. It was something about the way she did it. Her fascination with the results, her smiling indifference to the pain. Her sense of fun involved an element of real cruelty, and yet she wasn't a cruel person, or an arrogant person. Though she did things that many would consider mean.

She'd have made the point that I invited her meanness. So it was like that meant she had license. But it wasn't that simple. She's not someone you point a spider out to if you don't want it to end up a mess on the bottom of her shoe - and it won't make any difference pleading its case, or promising to remove it where she can see it's been taken safely away. It might come back, it her view. Whereas they don't often come back from being repeatedly stamped on and then determinedly ground into the floor. Maybe you're a lover of spiders or maybe you happen to own the carpet that one of them suicidally ventures out onto - or maybe both. She won't care. So it's not all about enacting the desires of others. Not by a long way. I really quite like pigeons. She's fairly unimpressed by them, but particularly dislikes the way they leave it right to the end to fly out of the way of her accelerating wheels, like they're taking the piss. She'd like nothing more than for a couple of them to misjudge time and space - and the result, if you're in the car with her driving it, is a bit tortuous. One day, she'll get her wish. I've been heart in mouth, more than once, when she's very nearly hit her jackpot.

It can feel a bit like that sometimes, when she walks on your fingers in passing. In shoes. She doesn't look, she just walks. You wanna play dare with me, boy? Dangerous game, that? Or if she dances on your unprotected cock and balls, drunk. She's dancing, like she'd dance on anything more obviously designed to be danced on. It won't be long before you're not in any doubt about that. No pussyfooting. You give, and she'll sure as hell take.

She liked the idea of restraining me. Of being let loose where there was no hope of it being stopped, even if I'd wanted. I'm pretty sure I know what would happen to a pigeon, if it signed up to that with her. And, for that very reason, I found the whole idea of it incredibly hot. But was never stupid enough to go beyond fantasy. I found the unrestrained tortures all the more amazing for the fact of being scared by exactly how far she might go if I ever gave in to the ropes or chains, or whatever her desire might have been. A one ton weight, on my chest. A giant tyre, where I could increase my empathy with the pigeon population? (I'm aware that there are people who like the idea of being utterly crushed by giant women but I'm not one of them as it happens. So I always treated Jesse with great care.)

If I'd ever needed any evidence that I was right to be wary, it was in her responses to the offer of foot worship. She wanted it earned, first, through doing a good job on her shoes and boots. She liked them kissed, and she liked them cleaned.